


in this lifetime & the next

by alexmanes



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Multiple Lifetimes, Angst and Feels, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Major Character Deaths (Past), Mild Smut, No Character Deaths (Present), Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-01 17:44:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17871884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexmanes/pseuds/alexmanes
Summary: No matter the circumstances, true love will always find a way. Or, the four lifetimes Michael and Alex have spent as lovers.





	in this lifetime & the next

**Author's Note:**

> Because tonight's Roswell, NM episode is going to give me such intense Malex feels, I need to brace myself for the range of emotions I'm about to feel. That's why I decided to (very briefly) press pause on [my WIP](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17618561/chapters/41537666) and focus on this one-shot. It's been running around my head for a while now and demanded to be written, so who am I to fight my muse? It took me a whole week to write, but hopefully it's worth it. And sounds better to you than it does to me.

**1731**.

Guerin is among the lucky ones, or so Manes tells him. He started out as a young cabin boy who quickly learned that treachery coursed through his veins. To steal came as natural as walking on his own two feet. Fate dictated that he could never truly abide by the laws of civilized men. Stealing proved to be far more lucrative than living by the straight and narrow, simple as that. The life of an upstanding sailor was not and never will be suitable for Guerin, so he chose the life of a pirate. Reveled in it. Basking in the freedom and debauchery that came with being a thief of the seas.

Manes wasn’t so lucky. Pirates like him are forged against their will through blood, sweat, and tears. Captured during raids or battles, then forced to work aboard the ships of the pirate captain who bested their crew. Even then, only a few are brought aboard after their vessels had been pillaged. Many are left for dead, cast out to face the unforgiving whims of the briny deep. Guerin doesn’t know how close Manes came to dying at the hands of their captain, but he decides that he’d prefer to keep it that way. Manes rarely speaks of his life before the Fortuna. Guerin doesn’t press him about it, doesn’t even let it cross his mind most days. To think of a past before the Fortuna is strictly forbidden, anyway. No use thinking of a life you’ll never get back.

But when the goings are tough and there are seldom comforts to be had, Manes will speak of his past. Under the cover of darkness — when the rest of the crew has long since fallen asleep and the ship sways ferociously from the unpredictable fury of the sea and neither of them knows what tomorrow will bring — he confides in Guerin. He speaks of the brothers he promised to return home to, or the friends he’d spend his nights with at local pubs, or the father who pushed him toward the life of a navy captain. Manes misses them all so dearly, he swears his chest aches every time they cross his mind. Then the tears begin to flow and Guerin is tasked with wiping them away, all while fighting back his own. Crying has done no pirate any good, least of all a pirate aboard the Fortuna, but when it’s just the two of them curled up in Guerin’s hammock, they can afford to wear their hearts on their sleeves.

Guerin makes promises he knows he’ll never be able to keep. He swears he'll steal away with Manes the next time the ship docks. They'll make a break for it and won’t stop until they reach a quaint little village somewhere inland, far from the harsh ways of the sea. Somewhere no pirate can reach them ever again. They’ll find a way to reconnect Manes with his family and friends through any means necessary, and he’ll be happy again. In the heat of the moment, Guerin believes himself. He thinks he can give up a life he willingly chose, despite knowing the only way to be free is through death by the sword. But Manes never wanted to abide by the ways of a pirate, nor does he see himself as a true member of the crew. A life with Guerin in some unassuming town is a dream come true for Manes, while their current predicament is nothing short of a nightmare.

So they take it one day at a time, keeping to their roles when necessary. While Guerin remains above deck manning the sails, Manes is stuck helping the cook a floor below. They can only find solace in one another once darkness strikes. Manes finishes up in the kitchen by the time the whole crew has tuckered themselves out, thus leaving him unsupervised on the short trip to his quarters. Guerin has a nice little setup away from the others, which means no one ever catches Manes sneaking to and from his bedside. There, they either swap secrets or take pleasure in one another. Guerin doesn’t think of it as making love, for they’re often rushed and desperate and just a tad drunk on whatever alcohol Manes has smuggled from the kitchen, but it’s the closest they’ll ever get to it. 

" _Manes_ ," Guerin moans, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the other's jaw. His hands fumble to find purchase on the body beneath his own, one clasping at dark locks while the other threatens to bear bruises into soft hips. Manes is typically the noisiest of the two, often needing to be muffled by a pillow or Guerin's hand, but his lips are parted in a silent cry from the bittersweet stretch of Guerin's cock pushing up into him. 

"Don't stop," is all Manes can muster, nails digging into Guerin's back. They're sure to leave marks, but most pirates have cuts and bruises they can't account for. No one will so much as bat an eye when they see Guerin scratched up, nor will they suspect Manes is the culprit.  

Manes arches his back so the cock fills him up just right, how he so desperately craves it, and Guerin's fingers quickly slip from his hair in favor of clamping over his mouth. It's the only way to ensure Manes is kept quiet while Guerin buries himself to the hilt. Were it not for the waves crashing against the ship, providing the perfect cover for their rendezvous, he'd need a lot more than that to stifle Manes, who is now whining in the back of his throat. As Guerin begins a firm and steady rhythm, Manes hooks a leg over his waist and leaves the other to dangle over the edge of the cot. Up until Guerin suddenly slides a hand beneath his thigh and hoists it above his shoulder, thrusting even deeper from this angle. It's one of the few positions they can afford given how small Michael's cot is, but they find ways to make it work. They always do. 

Despite their frequent trysts, both Guerin and Manes are convinced the crew is none the wiser. Of course, it’s pure luck that their charade has lasted for so long, and Guerin soon discovers that they’ve grown far too lax with taking the necessary precautions. This occurs when the Fortuna unexpectedly anchors by an unfamiliar port and Manes is kept in the kitchen while the rest of the crew — Guerin included — is allowed on land. The cook claims that he needs help checking on supplies and tallying up what they'll need from the local town, which is supposedly one of the few 'pirate friendly' lots along the Fortuna's route.  He makes this announcement in front of the rest of the crew, who've begun boarding the dinghies that'll take them to the port. Guerin can't hesitate when boarding his own, for it'll draw suspicion, but he glances back in time to see the demoralized look etched across Manes's face. This would've been the ideal place to steal away as Guerin so often promises, but with the ship purposely anchored as far from the port as possible, they'd have no choice but to make a swim for it. That just won't do.

Forced to leave Manes behind, Guerin accompanies the rest of the rowdy crew onto land. As expected, they gravitated toward the brothel in town and some are even bargaining with their captain to bring a few women aboard, at which point Guerin excuses himself to scout the local tavern. It's here that he finds a comfortable solitude, free from the rowdy behavior of his fellow pirates and swallowed up by the darkness of the dimly lit bar. He has time to think about Manes, to wonder where this fledgling of a relationship can possibly take them, to how he can successfully get Manes off that ship, even if Guerin's forced to stay behind and cover for him. 

Then Long plops himself down at Guerin's table, and Guerin's day quickly goes from bad to worse to downright terrible. Everyone is well aware that Long is Captain’s second-in-command. Anything Long reports back with can land his shipmates in hot water. If Long is going to corner someone away from the rest of the crew, trouble is afoot. Yet Guerin knows better than to panic and give Long the reaction he's looking for. Sipping on his rum, Guerin remains impassive and unfazed. 

“This crew doesn’t recognize matelotage,” Long quietly announces, nearly drowned out by the group of rowdy pirates that immediately enters the tavern. It’s such an unexpected statement that Guerin nearly chokes on his drink. “If I were you, I’d think about that the next time you sneak off with the kitchen help.”

Matelotage is one of the few laws most pirates abide by, allowing men to strike up partnerships while out at sea. It's pure misfortune that Manes and Guerin found themselves on a ship that strictly avoids the practice, but to bring such an issue up means this conversation is about to get _much_ worse. Guerin has to silently brace himself for what's to come, lest his emotions get the better of him and he blow their cover sky-high. 

“The fuck’re you on about?” Guerin scoffs. Though his heart beats rapidly in his chest, he knows he has to play his cards right. Give too much away and something as minor as a suspicion can morph into full-blown accusations. 

"You heard me," Long snaps. "Only reason I haven't gone to the Cap'n with this is because we need you manning the sails."

Guerin takes another swig from his rum, stilling his hand as it threatens to shake. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do,” Long counters, fingers tightening around his whiskey bottle. "Keep putting that whore before your work and you'll both find yourselves in Davy Jones's Locker." 

If he could, Guerin would reach across the table and take a swing at Long, but he knows better. To do so would doom himself and Manes to a watery grave. All he can do is report back to Manes once the crew arrives back to the ship, each one eager to sleep off their adventures as the moon sits above their heads. But Manes never trudges into Michael's bed, quietly complaining about missing out on the trip or detailing what Guerin missed while away. He has no choice but to lay awake and hope, pray, that Manes will eventually show up. Morning comes and goes with no sign of Manes, which is when Guerin starts panicking.

Despite his mounting paranoia, Guerin has no choice but to remain indifferent in the face of Manes's disappearance. He worries that Long might be testing him, hiding Manes away somewhere else to see how Guerin reacts, but there's no way of knowing for sure. So he goes about his daily business, albeit while being far more temperamental than usual. Anyone who crosses him earns themselves a mouthful, because they've either roughly shoved by him or have given him dirty looks. Even as he snaps, though, he never once thinks of Manes, figuring it's better to keep him at the back of his mind for the time being.

Then dinner arrives, or what constitutes as their allotted meal for the night. The crew takes turns shuffling into a too cramped kitchen that's stuffed with their supplies, but they're lucky enough to even have some semblance of order. Not many ships have kitchens such as theirs, after all. Guerin purposely puts himself toward the back of the line and takes as long as possible trudging forward every time it moves. On one hand, it makes him look far less suspicious to a watching Long. On the other hand, part of him worries that he'll walk in and find no sign of Manes, and he dreads the thought of being proven right. 

"Next," calls the cook, and Guerin finds himself shuffling inside. 

The moment he sees Manes rummaging through the last of their old supplies, Guerin feels a weight lift off his shoulders. However, he quickly wipes a growing smile off his face and remains as nonchalant as Manes does. To Guerin's surprise, Manes does an excellent job of ignoring him. As soon as he hands Guerin a cup of rum and a bowl of pickled fish, he's moving onto the next man in line. He doesn't get so much as a longing glance from Manes, which can only mean one thing: Long got to him before Guerin could. 

This last for two whole weeks. Manes is rarely seen outside of the kitchen or away from the cook's side. Guerin has to pretend that the separation doesn't sting. He ignores the lingering paranoia that their relationship will now cease to exist, which seems more and more likely with every passing day. Each and every time he crosses Long's path, the second-in-command gives him a sick, self-satisfied smirk, as if he knows what he's putting Guerin through. Guerin thinks he'd rather walk the plank with chains tied around his ankles than go another night without Manes there to keep him warm.

One particular night, when Long has retreated into his quarters earlier than usual and the crew follows suite, Guerin decides to do the same. He has no one to wait up for. No one who will slide beside him in bed and press a kiss to his cheek or his lips or his neck or anywhere else they please. No one to recount stories of the past with. Why be tired and weary the following morning for no good reason? So he retreats to his cot, away from the rest of the crew and their groggy, petty arguments. He settles in for a turbulent night thanks to the unpredictable waves beyond his bedside porthole.

And then he feels the edge of his cot dip beneath added weight, and his eyes fly open when he feels a familiar touch to his arm.

"Guerin?" Manes whispers, lightly shaking him. "Guerin, wake—"

Guerin doesn't give him a chance to finish. His arms wind around Manes's waist and he all but forces Manes down beside him, refusing to let go, even as Manes chuckles and tries to reposition himself comfortably. If this is a dream, Guerin doesn't want to wake up and he certainly doesn't want to let Manes go. 

"Where the hell have you been?" Guerin hisses.

Manes is finally able to turn around so that he's facing Guerin, pressing a desperate kiss to Guerin's lips. "The cook warned me that Long was getting suspicious," he murmurs, pulling back so Guerin can catch his breath. "He figured keeping me on the ship was Long's way of getting you alone to talk."

"The cook knows?" Guerin asks, an all too familiar fear spiking through his chest.

"Long went to him with his suspicions," Manes explains. "Told the cook to report back if he spots any odd behavior outta me. He promised me he wouldn't, on account of him hating Long's guts. All I had to day was lay low 'til Long stopped trying to catch me in the act."

 Guerin laughs, deep and hearty and genuine, before pulling Manes in for another kiss. "Remind me to thank the cook tomorrow."

"Will do," Manes agrees, gently nudging Guerin onto his back. "Until then, you're all mine."

Despite Guerin's arms around him, Manes manages to straddle Guerin's waist and settle atop him. He runs his hands along Guerins chest, up his neck, mapping his face with his fingers before sliding them through his dark curls. He's trying to commit Guerin to memory, lest they're forced to spend more time apart. If this is the last time he'll ever get to see him, he's set on getting his fill. Guerin follows suit, calloused fingertips sliding across Manes's thighs, then up to his abdomen, before traveling as high as his arms can reach. While one hand cups a warm cheek, the other remains steadfast against Manes's heart, feeling it beat in time with Guerin's. 

"I think I love you," Manes murmurs, so soft Guerin nearly misses it.

Swallowing back a lump in his throat, Guerin nods. "Aye. Think I love you, too."

After that, they allow a comfortable silence to settle over them. They take their time basking in each other's presence, simply happy to be reunited once more. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, after all, and no one is fonder of Manes than Guerin, nor Guerin than Manes. 

Then the sound of cannon fire interrupts the beauty of the moment. Manes instantly looks up and around at their surroundings, brows furrowed in confusion. Guerin’s head perks up alongside his. They both wait with bated breath, as if the sound could've been a figment of their collective imagination. 

“Did you hear that?” Manes frantically whispers, heart racing beneath Guerin’s palm.

Before Guerin can respond, a deafening boom tears through the silence of the night. It’s followed by the crackle of wood splintering from the impact of a cannonball. Manes and Guerin are quickly stumbling over each other, struggling to get out of Guerin’s cot and gather their bearings. The rest of the crew is rushing above deck from their respective quarters. Their collective shouting is nearly drowned out by another hit to the ship, and the shockwave that follows nearly sends Guerin tumbling to the ground. Manes is there to grab hold of his arm and tug him along, ensuring he doesn't get trampled among the throng of panicked pirates. 

Above deck, they spot the culprit behind the nighttime attack — the British Navy. 

Suddenly, the situation is far grimmer than either of them are prepared for. There's a sense of normality when it comes to pirates attacking other pirates. More often than not, it can end with a draw where both crews sail away to nurse their wounds and live to fight another day. But with the British Navy, death is imminent. Lose to the law and kiss your life goodbye. Manes and Guerin both know this, seeing as they found themselves aboard those very ships, abiding by those very laws, before fate placed them on the Fortuna. 

Manes has no choice but to help man the canons, but he grasps Guerin's hand before he leaves. Amid the confusion of their unprompted battle, no one notices Manes squeeze Guerin's hand and press a kiss to his cheek. But as quickly as he does so, he's off to fulfill his task. And so Guerin does the same, desperately quelling the despair building in the pit of his stomach. The Navy is clearly out for blood and retribution, which isn't far-fetched or misplaced given the Fortuna's reputation. To get rid of these pirates would essentially keep half of the country's merchant ships from sinking to the bottom of the Atlantic. Of course, the Fortuna is equipped for these confrontations; this isn't the first Navy vessel to come for them and it won't be the last. 

"Bring a spring upon her cable!" The Captain shouts. Guerin finds himself lurching in time with the ship, aiding in the maneuvering of the sails.

"Come about!" Long hollers not long after, storming from the bow of the ship and straight down the centreline.

It's then that Guerin realizes they may very well be on a crash course for the Navy vessel. If not that, then they're dangerously close to it; within shooting distance, as a matter of fact. That must be the plan then. To draw so close, the Navy will refrain from firing their cannons and allow the Fortuna to make the very move they're avoiding. Those away from the sides of the ship are at far less risk of crossfire, but Manes isn't that lucky. Where he's forced to load the cannons, he's as good as dead. 

"Run a shot across the bow, Long!" The Captain commands, and it's all the confirmation Guerin needs. Once Long fires that warning shot, it's a free for all. Another cannonball collides with the Fortuna, leaving a gaping hole just feet from where Guerin stands, and self-preservation kicks into gear. He's not about to let Manes die out here. For a cause he doesn't even believe in, no less. 

As soon as Long fires the shot, it manages to strike a naval sailor. In response, the other sailors return the fire tenfold. Bullets ricochet left and right, forcing pirates to cower and duck while manning their stations. Guerin spots Manes still loading the canon while another pirate launches it. Both men rush to cover their ears as soon as the deafening boom rings out, and they drop to their knees in hopes of the cannon deflecting stray bullets. 

"Manes!" Guerin shouts, joining other shipmates in ducking behind the mast. "Manes, over here!"

Against all odds, Manes's head perks up the moment he catches Guerin's voice over the chaos threatening to swallow them whole. He glances around at the commotion around him, notices how others are dropping to the floor or seeking shelter as well. The moment the opportunity presents itself, Manes lays low while scrambling across the deck, hoping to reach Guerin before a stray bullet or cannonball catches him—

Only to have Long grab Manes by the collar of his shirt, hoist him up to his feet, and shout, "Where the hell do you think you're going, Manes? Get back in position!"

Guerin panics. He worries that Long will simply do away with Manes, use him as a shield, or leave him to catch a bullet, and he can't let that happen. Without thinking, Guerin is rushing toward Manes and Long, ducking and diving and dodging so he doesn't lose his own life along the way. In a split second decision, he grabs hold of Manes and shoves Long aside, just in time for a gunshot to slice through the air and send all three falling to the ground. 

Long can be heard screaming in agony seconds later. When Guerin glances across the centreline, he sees Long writhing on the floor and clutching his shoulder. All while other members of the crew rush to drag him away from the thick of the battle. Guerin isn't so eager to move from where he and Manes are curled up, hidden from the worst of the shots behind barrels full of swords. But when he feels Manes fall deathly still, he assumes the worst. He thinks Manes must've been shot and passed away in his arms, and Guerin panics when fumbling to find a wound. Peeling back his shirt, searching his neck and chest and stomach, hoping for an explanation. It isn't until he looks up into Manes's face and sees the color drained from it, eyes pointed up above them, that he finds the root of the issue.

The Captain is staring down at them with unbridled fury, face contorted in a scowl and hand poised to grab his sword. In that moment, Guerin realizes they made a fatal mistake. 

The following day, there’s not a cloud in the sky and for once, the sea is at peace. Calm waves do nothing more than lightly rock the Fortuna where it sits, but the tranquility of the moment is ruined by a choir of menacing jeers. Guerin finds himself at the center of it all; hands bound behind his back, chains around his ankles. Alex isn't far behind, donning the same ropes and chains, except he'd led out by a furious Long, who's followed by the Captain. Guerin's surprised Long can even manage the walk, given the bullet hole he's still sporting beneath his blood-soaked shirt. Then again, he's lucky it went through the top of his shoulder; it's not as bad as it could've been, but the shot is still a wound that should not — would not — exist, if only Guerin hadn't pushed him. 

And that's why they find themselves ready to walk across the ship's plank. Long was furious enough with Guerin to lay into him once they'd evaded the Navy, spilling the truth behind his close bond with Manes. He went as far as demanding Guerin's head in exchange for his own, should he not survive his wound. Long did, in fact, survive, but the Captain refused to ignore what he'd heard. So Guerin, along with Manes, were stuffed in the brig while he thought of a punishment. Their last night together was spent in a tight embrace meant to quell their mounting fear, all while the two lay in wait for the morning and their untimely demise. Now they can't even be a foot within each other, per the Captain's orders. Guerin blames himself for how things turned out. He figures Manes does too.

They're being led to the edge of the ship, much to the cruel delight of their shipmates, and readied for their final moments. Alex can do nothing but mouth, 'I love you.' Guerin is about to return the sentiment when Long shoves him forward. His feet awkwardly collide with the edge of the plank, and Long shoves him up and onto the sturdy board of wood. Then Alex is set right behind him; a sword is pressed against his back to keep both himself and Guerin facing straight ahead. 

"Consider yourselves lucky that you ain't dancin' the hempen jig," Long sneers. Behind him, there are calls for Long and the Captain to do just that. They demand that Manes and Guerin be hung and made an example for anyone else of their 'sickly' persuasion. To this crew, the thought of one man loving another is incorrigible and worthy of the harshest punishment possible. 

"Of course," Guerin finds himself muttering. "A death by drowning is far better."

"Manes," the Captain suddenly states, and Michael glances over his shoulder to see what he's about to do. He hopes Manes won't be punished for his sarcastic nature, but the Captain merely says, "Send Guerin overboard."

It isn't bad enough that they're being sentenced to death. No, not by a long shot. They want Manes to be the one to kill the very man he loves. Watch him sink to the bottom of the sea and pay a visit to Davy Jones, all while Manes helplessly watches.

Without hesitation, Manes snaps, "Blow the man down yourself." 

"With pleasure," Long sneers. Instantly, a sharp pain travels up Guerin's spine and renders him to his knees. Manes cries out in horror, but can do nothing as Long slides his sword free from Guerin. Long goes as far as to kick at Guerin until he finally teeters on the edge of the plank, then has no choice but to fall right over. 

Before he takes the plunge, on thought crosses through Guerin's mind: maybe — _just maybe_  — Manes isn't tied up so tightly. Once they hit the water, maybe Manes can free himself from the rope and chains. If he's lucky and the crew fails to land a shot with their pistols or their canons, he can swim to safety. Far, far away from the hellhole of a ship. Back to the family and friends waiting for him. To a man who can give him everything Guerin never could; protection, stability. 

Guerin doesn't live long enough to find out his lover's fate, but he dies praying to a God he no longer believes in.

Praying that Manes makes it out alive, cheating a death he does not deserve. 

 

 

 **1876**. 

Guerin has seen his fair share of cruel, terrible things out in the desert — most of which would send average men running for the hills. 

The screeching of cougars at night, followed closely by the dying screams of whichever poor, unfortunate soul they've decided to turn into their next meal. Vultures soaring through the barren skies above with curved beaks and razor-sharp talons, ready to tear flesh from bone. Scorpions laying in wait, stingers poised to do their job, and rattlesnakes no different with their venomous fangs. Coyotes, wolves, and the like roaming the land in formidable packs, fearing no man unfortunate enough to cross their paths. Any one of these animals can claim the life of a human. A whole group of them, if they so wish.

Then there are humans, who Guerin considers to be the most dangerous creature of them all. He's witnessed their atrocities firsthand. Seen the bodies of their hapless victims withering away beneath the unforgiving sun. The empty wagons looted of all valuables and broken to pieces, simply to spite its deceased owner. Far too many cattle go missing to simply be marked off as a cougar or wolf pack taking them down. Humans are a greedy, despicable bunch who will gladly snatch up another man's property for their own gain. 

The life of a cowboy isn't for the faint of heart, nor is it for men who cannot abide by the code of conduct every cowboy must follow. That's why Guerin takes extra care in helping Max Evans pick new men for their crew. He wants to be there when each one is assessed; wants to know the kind of lot he'll be in charge of come March. With the spring roundup drawing closer, they'll need a few more cowboys to lend a hand and the Evans family isn't keen on losing anymore cattle. The more cowboys they have, the less likely bandits are to steal away with a stray steer. 

Of course, Manes also has to be present. As Guerin's right-hand out on the open range, he's got as much say as Guerin does with their new recruits. Getting approval from Guerin only comes when they've passed through Manes, who goes through the ones Evans deems acceptable. 

"So," Evans begins, sitting across from Manes and Guerin, "who're you takin' out for the roundup?"

Manes and Guerin glance at one another in perfect unison, share a nod, and Guerin decides to speak for the both of them. 

"Noah Bracken, Wyatt Long, Kyle Valenti, the Brazel brothers, and—" Guerin pauses, then turns to ask Manes, "Did Hank ever give us a last name?"

"Nope," Manes replies. "Frederico didn't give one either. Figured they're just private. It doesn't matter much to me."

If it doesn't matter to Manes, then it doesn't matter to Guerin. And Evans seems to be just fine with taking their word for it. They've got a good judge of character and he knows they wouldn't lead him astray. 

"You'll have a few weeks to run 'em through the basics," Evans says. "Then you'll set out with the group toward the end of March. The sooner we get the cattle back, the better."

"Agreed," Guerin and Manes respond, prompting a light chuckle from Evans.

"Still ain't used to that," Evans remarks. "Y'all sure you ain't twins or somethin'?"

"Just close, is all," Manes laughs, though he and Guerin share a brief, knowing look. 

The meeting with Evans doesn't last much longer. They've been through this a considerable number of times now — twice a year for five whole years, as a matter of fact. This is second nature for Manes and Guerin alike, so he needs to simply state the number of cattle they'll need to bring back, square away how many horses they'll be taking with them, and set to preparing the necessary supplies to go along on the journey. When all is said and done, the duo excuse themselves with a friendly hat tip and a firm handshake. However, they don't join the rest of their crew at the group bunkhouse. The opposite, actually. Right in the heart of the Evans' ranch, they've got themselves a nice little setup: a small house with two beds, a working stove, and their own private outhouse. There's no need to stay with the other cowhands, especially when Manes and Guerin much prefer the privacy that comes with their own room and board. 

"I'm beat," Guerin sighs, kicking his boots off by their front door. "Do we _have_ to eat dinner tonight?"

Shrugging off his leather jacket, Manes scoffs. "You're just saying that because it's your turn to cook."

"Maybe," Guerin admits, cracking a smile. 

"You rest up then," Manes concedes. "I'll get to cooking. How does that sound?"

Guerin comes up behind Manes, wrapping his arms around the other's waist and pulling him flush against his chest. "Perfect."

When Guerin presses a few kisses against Manes's neck, Manes has to bat him away. "None of that 'til dinner's done. Lord knows you don't stop once you get started."

Guerin can't deny that, so he lets Manes go in favor of getting their dinner started. They have all night to take pleasure in one another, but certainly not until their empty stomachs are full. Guerin also has to admit that between the two of them, Manes is better at rustling up a meal. Manes attributes this to the time he spent with his mother, who hails from the Cherokee tribe that calls North Carolina home. She taught him traditional recipes from their people, and taught him to take pride in his heritage. And so he does, making meals that Guerin has come to appreciate and sticking to the roots his father once tried beating out of him. Those memories are long forgotten, though; thrown to the very back of Manes's mind in favor of the happier ones he's made by Guerin's side.

It takes some time, but Manes cooks up a proper feast for them both. Corn pones, green chili slew, succotash, and huckleberry bread — Guerin's practically drooling as each helping of food is set on their tiny table. It isn't until Manes settles down by his side that he begins piling generous helpings onto both of their plates, and Manes can't help but scoff at Guerin's sudden bout of hunger now that he's not the one cooking or cleaning the mess. 

"So _now_ you're hungry?" Manes curiously asks.

"I'm always hungry for you," Guerin teases, knocking their knees together beneath the table. 

"I bet you are," Manes mutters as he digs into his meal.

A fond grin spreads across his lips nonetheless, because this playful banter has become normal for them. After a day on the ranch or a roundup trip out into No Man's Land, they always come back home to one another, sampling a slice of domestic bliss before they're called to work once more. Having someone to come home to makes life out West a little more bearable, gives them an incentive to lay low and protect their hides and make it back in one piece. If the law allowed it, they'd have gotten married the moment they laid eyes on each other, but they make do with what they have: a roof over their heads, steady work, and someone who loves them. 

"What's for dessert?" Guerin asks through a mouthful of slew. 

"The huckleberry bread," Manes replies, "but I could always strip down and let you have a taste of _this_."

 Guerin, of course, doesn't pass up the offer. 

Once Manes cleans up their mess — all while Guerin wraps his arms around his waist and presses chaste kisses to his cheek or behind his ear or under his jaw — Guerin tugs him along to their bed. They've managed to tie their two individual mattresses together, ensuring they have enough space between the two of them to curl up at night or have their fair share of fun. It creaks ever so slightly when Guerin pulls Manes down, each of them trying to frantically undress the other. Shirts flutter down to the floor, belts are thrown aside, and Guerin nearly knocks over a lamp with a careless toss of his jeans. 

"Watch it," Manes scolds, fingers sliding down Guerin's abdomen. When his fingers wrap around Guerin's cock, Guerin groans and rolls over so Manes is pinned beneath him, rutting against his hip and already rushing to spread his thighs. But Manes simply laughs at his reaction and flips them back over, straddling Guerin's waist instead. "I cooked, so I call the shots. Got it?"

Guerin throws his head back with a groan, but relents. If there's one thing he's incapable of doing, it's telling Manes no. He lets Manes pin his hands above his head with ease, does his best not to squirm when Manes runs his free hand across his chest and torso with a light, absolutely torturous touch that has his cock hardening where it's pinned against one of his thighs. Guerin rolls his hips, hoping to catch a bit of much needed friction for his aching length, and tugs uselessly against Manes's grip on his wrists, but Manes simply grins down at him devilishly, knowing _exactly_ what he's doing, and brushes his hand across the base of Guerin's cock. 

"Tease," Guerin grunts, then proceeds to buck up with actual fervor. "You gonna get on with it or what?"

"Be patient," Manes lightly scolds, clucking his tongue in disapproval. He releases Guerin's wrists, but only in order to slide down toward the edge of the bed. He leaves open-mouthed kisses from his neck down to his groin as he goes, and then—

"Dammit," Guerin hisses, suddenly finding his cock enveloped by a soft pair of lips. He buries his hands in the other's hair, running his fingers through the dark brown locks, fisting and tugging with as much gusto as he'll allow himself. "You little shit."

Manes responds by hollowing his cheeks and taking even more of Guerin down his throat, rendering Guerin nothing more than a stuttering mess. 

The following morning, Manes has a clear bounce in his step and Guerin is doing his best to mask a limp, but none of the cowhands seem to notice. They're too busy squaring away their steeds and waiting for their new bosses to finally make an appearance. 

"Was wonderin' when y'all would show up," Long calls out, looking a little more than annoyed. It's a fair reaction; the crew had to sleep in the bunkhouse with uncomfortable cots and one dingy fan to keep them cool, while Manes and Guerin were off in their own quarters. 

"Sorry 'bout that," Manes responds. "Guerin almost set our lodge on fire this morning and we had to put it out 'fore the whole ranch burned."

It's technically not a lie, but it's also not the whole truth. Manes got it in his head that they could go for a third round come sunrise, which distracted Guerin while he was cooking. Their whole breakfast had gone up in flames, but quick thinking had rendered it to nothing more than smoke and ash. 

"Quit exaggerating," Guerin scoffs, rolling the sleeves of his flannel up to his elbows. "But since we're here now, it's time to get to work. This job isn't just about roundin' up cattle and bringin' 'em on back, gentleman. We gotta prepare the ranch and make sure the heifers have somethin' to come back to. Got it?"

Around them, the group mutters their agreement and willingness to comply with what's in store, and so the training begins. It becomes a grueling few weeks of cleaning out the pens, patching up the roofs and walls of the barns, and getting their horses accustomed to one another, but the Evans pay them through it all. No one can deny that Max and Isobel are generous employers, which is why none of them complain when they're put to work. Besides Guerin and Manes, the Evans siblings tend to watch them at work, just to make sure they're abiding by the rules of the ranch and doing their jobs properly. (And on more than one occasion, Guerin catches Bracken worshiping the very ground Isobel walks on, vying for her attention and attempting to woo her with his array of skills. He ignores the childlike taunts of his fellow cowboys, stating that he can't help falling for such a pretty face, and Manes often scolds the others to let Bracken be.)

When the day comes for the group to set off for the spring roundup, they've all gotten used to each other's company. There isn't any in-fighting as Manes or Guerin would come to expect with a group of men, but they appreciate the lack of problems and try not to question their luck. It simply means the roundup will be a smooth one and proves their picks for their crew were, in fact, perfect.

Everyone is in a chipper mood until they all converge to mount their horses. From the get-go, one of the horses begins acting up — and she belongs to Manes, no less. Normally obedient under Manes's soothing touch, Scout tugs at heir reins and kicks up her back hooves. Still inside her stable stall, she bucks against the walls and continuously rears up every time Manes grasps at her rein. She proves to be quite the problem for her rider, who is the last to mount his steed and is holding up the rest of the group. Even worse, she's meant to be carrying a good portion of their supplies, and they can't head out until she's got them loaded up on her back. 

"This is a sign," Frederico remarks, waiting with the others outside the stable. "The horse knows something we don't."

Guerin remains silent, but he's inclined to agree. In all his years with Manes, he's never seen Scout react so fiercely when approached by Manes. Clearly she's on edge and frightened by the thought of leaving her stall, but none of them — not even Manes, if asked — can explain why. Guerin won't confirm his suspicions around the other men, though. Least of all while Manes is getting his horse under control. Thankfully, it doesn't take much longer for him to lull Scout's nerves and fasten her saddle into place. Scout's ears twitch with obvious irritation and it takes a gentle kick from Manes to get her trotting along, but he's soon joining the group with no other interruptions. 

"I don't know what's gotten into her," Manes huffs, tugging on Scout's reins for good measure. She neighs in response, but is far from the panicked steed she was moments ago. "We don't have time to worry, though. She'll just have to get it out of her system while we're riding past the mountains." 

As it stands, they're nearly an hour behind schedule and have to hurry along, so no one bothers arguing with Manes. He is, after all, second-in-command only to Guerin. As a partner and lover, Guerin shares a concerned look with Manes, who brushes it off with a shrug and tired smile. So long as Manes seems fine, Guerin won't question it. 

They set off with most of the supplies strapped to Manes and Guerin's saddles, but a few more bags have been entrusted to the Brazel brothers and Valenti. Though they're clearly prepared, Guerin can sense an uneasiness with their new crew. Those who are superstitious clearly have hesitation toward Manes's horse. Those who aren't as superstitious are equally perturbed, though they do better at masking their emotions. 

Guerin isn't sure if Manes picks up on the tension, but Manes does an excellent job of pushing it to the back of their minds. He begins recounting tales of old roundups and gets Guerin to chime in, sharing their experience with those in the group who've yet to work out in what they've collectively dubbed No Man's Land. Once past the mountain ridge bordering Nevada and California, it's a whole day's ride to the next speck of civilization and too far from the Evans Ranch to send reinforcements they don't have. Guerin and Manes have learned how to handle themselves out in the desert with nothing more than their steeds and a few meager supplies. The others seem intrigued by their stories, or perhaps they're simply relieved to hear how much experience their leaders have under their belt. Either way, the tension does indeed pass, and the trip remains relatively peaceful through the afternoon and well into the evening. 

When a comfortable silence settles overhead, Guerin takes a moment to admire their surroundings. The sunset is brilliant, streaking the azure sky with strips of gold and crimson, and the only sound to be heard is the soft neighing of their horses. As usual, Guerin's eyes eventually land on Manes, because he can only go so long without soaking up his beauty. He's enraptured by the way the sun softens his features and brings about a certain radiance, as if Manes is glowing. Part of Guerin wishes he could snap a photograph of this moment. Hang it up over the mantle of their tiny abode and look back on it fondly, always reminded of his first and only love. Another part of Guerin — a part he's not used to cropping up this fiercely, fighting its way to the very forefront of his mind — thinks this may be the last time he ever spots Manes looking so peaceful. There's a sinking feeling in Guerin's gut; an intuition that's warning him of dangers yet to come. 

It isn't until his horse kicks up a bit of dirt that Guerin's attention is drawn elsewhere. At least half the group has pistols raised to shoot down the rattlesnake slithering dangerously close to the horses' heels, Manes included. Guerin glances back up to the sinking horizon. In an hour, they'll be plunged into darkness. Much worse than a lone rattlesnake will soon come out to play. It won't do them any good to be riding well into the night. 

"We'll set up camp once we reach the edge of the mountain," Guerin announces. He and Manes have been around these parts countless times before, so he knows of a stream trickling down from the top of the mountain. They'll get some fresh water and a good night's rest, maybe have the chance to catch a small rabbit or two to add to their humble dinner. "Manes, mind scouting on ahead?"

Manes, who was already goading his horse to pick up speed before Guerin spoke, nods. "One step ahead of you." 

When Manes passes him by, Guerin ignores the sinking suspicion creeping through his mind. He stifles the need to holler for Manes to come on back to the group, even as his silhouette vanishes off into the distance. As if the sudden bout of concern isn't troubling enough, Bracken and Valenti saddle up on either side of him. They break formation for the sake of casting equally troubled looks toward Manes's retreating form, then direct their attention toward Guerin.

"S'cuse me for askin' this," Bracken begins, "but are you and Manes...in relations?"

Guerin's horse angrily neighs and takes a few steps back, as if reacting on her rider's behalf. 

"What did you just say to me?" Guerin questions. Bracken opens his mouth to speak, at which point Guerin adds, "I was givin' you the chance to shut up and mind your business, Bracken. I wasn't givin' you permission to ask me again."

"We don't mean anythin' by it," Valenti chimes in. "We're askin' on account of you lookin' so troubled."

"Only time a man looks the way you do is when they're starin' down the barrel of a loaded gun or frettin' over someone they love," Bracken agrees solemnly. "You can feel it too, can't you?"

"The Devil's afoot," Long calls out, he and Hank trotting up to join them. The Brazel brothers and Frederico aren't far behind. "We _all_ feel it. Been feelin' it since we left the Evans Ranch."

Guerin wishes he could dispel their superstitious paranoia, but he can feel this as much as they do. Feels it so deeply, it courses through his veins and settles in his bones and clenches around his heart. The problem, therefore, is that he agrees with them, and that they're reminding him of his festering worries. 

"One of us ain't makin' it back after the roundup," Hank decides to toss in. "All that's left is to find out which one of us that is."

A gunshot echoes across the wide, open plains moments later, and Guerin realizes the Devil may already be well on his way to catching his prey. 

Their group can't ride fast enough through the barren wasteland. At first, Guerin thinks Manes may just be spooking off a lone coyote or another rattlesnake, but he can hear more gunshots in the distance. Rapid fire, one right after the other. Pretty soon, they all hear gunfire exchanged back and forth from two opposing forces, drowning the once tranquil desert into a battleground. And much to Guerin's growing horror, Manes has inevitably found himself in the thick of it. 

As they draw closer to the commotion, Frederico shouts, "Look!"

Eyes wide with terror, Scout comes barreling from the presumed direction of her rider. There's no saddle on her back, which means every last one of the supplies attached to it is now gone. This can only mean one thing. 

"Bandits," Valenti mutters. He, like the rest of the cowhands, have already begun slipping their pistols from their waists, ready to blow down the first outlaw they spot. 

"Find Manes," Guerin instructs, his own pistol at the ready. He points it at the sky and shoots a warning shot, followed shortly after by shots from the rest of the group. "Kill any son of a bitch who gets in your way."

As fate would have it, they don't come across any bandits. It seems the whole lot — and judging by their tracks in the dirt, there were plenty of them — booked it once they'd gotten what they were after. The warning shot caused them to scatter in the face of reinforcements, at the very least, and that was what spared a now lost Scout from being taken as part of their loot. But there are still bodies scattered across the scene of the fight; behind boulders, up against the edge of the mountain, and strewn across what little vegetation grew out in No Man's Land. There's a body carelessly slumped in a dying pit of embers, and if Guerin had to guess, the lone tent left behind probably houses another body. Guerin frantically searches the wreckage of the scene, eyes darting to and fro among the deceased, when he spots him. Tucked behind a boulder, wheezing and gasping for breath, is Manes. He's got his gun still clutched in one of his hands, but the other is pressed tightly against his abdomen. When he spots droplets of blood on the dirt, Guerin swears his heart stops.

"We found him!" Hank calls out. Guerin had no idea Hank was even riding by his side, but soon the whole group is descending upon the scene. Some of them start congratulating Manes for taking down so many of the bandits on his own, up until they realize the predicament he's found himself in. They soon fall silent, leaving Guerin to dismount first, before the rest can catch their bearings. 

"Came across their camp," Manes explains. He coughs, spitting up blood in the process. "They—" When Manes coughs again, Guerin shushes him, but he refuses to stop. "They took all my supplies. Tried taking the shirt right off my back, but I...I wouldn't let them. One shot at me—"

"He had the medicine," Valenti interrupts, sounding far too panicked for Guerin's liking. While he's rummaging through the sacks around his saddle, the Brazel brothers are trying to find any medical supplies among theirs. "The anti-venom, the bandages — hell, even the alcohol. We've got nothin' but food and water on us."

In that moment, Guerin succumbs to the harsh reality of the situation. It's painstakingly clear that the Devil was afoot that day. It had trailed after them, lingering in the shadows and waiting for the opportune time to strike, but it was gunning for one man all along: Manes. And it got exactly what it wanted. 

Hands shaking, heart threatening to burst at the seams, Guerin can do nothing but press his palm against the open wound. He keeps Manes close to his chest and cradles him like he would a small child, even as the blood seeps onto his hands and arms and shirt and anything else it can possibly reach, spreading like a wildfire. There's so much of it — _too_ much, Guerin realizes — and there's no stopping the flow now that it's started. With no means for mending the torn flesh, Manes is left to bleed out in Guerin's embrace. The rest of the group turns away to give them some semblance of privacy. That, and to ensure the bandits don't return to finish the rest of them off. 

"I love you," Manes sputters, lips coated with his own blood. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Ssh, darlin'. Save your breath," Guerin whispers. He finally stops holding back his tears, a few drops landing on Manes's cheek as Guerin leans in for one last kiss. "I love you too, Alexander. Always will. You hear me? I'm never gonna stop lovin' you, not as long as I live."

Manes smiles up at him, unable to fight back his own tears as he reaches up to press a bloody palm to Guerin's cheek. 

Guerin has seen his fair share of cruel, terrible things out in the desert, but nothing comes close to this. Watching the love of your life die in your arms is the cruelest twist of fate one can bear witness to. Watching the light leave their eyes, feeling them go limp and give up the fight, is something Guerin would never wish on another living soul. Were he not in charge of leading their group to safety — or not certain that Manes would want him to keep pushing onward — then he'd ask the other cowhands to leave him there. Leave him to turn to dust alongside his love, bandits be damned. 

If they want to avoid their own run-in with more outlaws, however, Manes cannot be given a proper burial. Guerin cannot grieve for much longer. A shallow grave dug by hand is all they can offer as a final resting place. Stones will serve as a sort of makeshift casket. If Manes is lucky, the bandits won't return to rid him of his clothes. Out in No Man's Land, those are hot commodities that any grave robber will readily snatch, if given the chance.

Guerin can't bring himself to partake in the burial, but no one minds making up for one less pair of hands. They know a grieving man will simply slow them down. For Guerin's sake, Valenti joins him in watching their fellow cowboys at work. Best to mourn with company than suffer all alone. Isolation does terrible thing to men out West. 

"He was a good man," Valenti mournfully remarks, clasping Guerin's shoulder. "Hard to find those 'round these parts."

"You're right," Guerin agrees. He knows he won't find another man like Manes. Not in two weeks. Not in two years. Not even in two whole lifetimes. And truth be told, he doesn't want to. "Reckon I won't ever get this lucky again."

 

 

 **1924**.

"Oh, Alexander," calls a soft, airy voice from the foyer, "won't you come join us for a game of croquet?" 

This girl is awfully nice; Alex will give her that much. Judging by the scathing look his father is casting his way, Alex would be a fool to deny her the simple pleasures of a friendly game in the Manes' backyard. As it stands, however, he can't recall her name and isn't particularly fond of committing it to memory if she has to remind him. It's a good thing his lack of an interest is seen as typical for young men in this day and age. Or rather, young men of Alex's caliber. The way women now carry themselves —  with bare knees proudly on display, hair boldly chopped to their shoulders, and faces painted with vibrant colors — it's best to feign disinterest. It's the only way to weed out the respectable ladies from the bunch, according to Alex's brothers, and Alex is especially good at pretending to be disinterested. Dare he say, his distaste toward women is genuine. To push them away comes naturally. 

"I'd just be a wet blanket," Alex insists, offering her a sad, little smile. "My brothers are here, aren't they? You'll have much more fun without me around."

While his father glares daggers at Alex, the young woman pouts those bright red lips of hers and tucks a short curl behind her ear. Appearing every bit as demure and elegant as their society dictates. She plays the part down to a tee, which is commendable in its own right. She even looks regal standing beneath the chandelier he suspects his mother loves more than her own children. With its bright, nearly blinding light, she glows. 

"Where are you running off to?" His father questions, as if he doesn't already know the answer.

"I promised Kyle Valenti that we'd take a trip over to Great Neck," Alex casually responds. He knows that his father won't bat an eye so long as Kyle is involved, simply because the Valenti and Manes families have long since maintained a _very_ public friendship. To pull Alex from obligations with Kyle would be a slap in the face to Jim Valenti himself, and Jesse Manes cannot fathom such a problem for his well-pressed family. 

For the opulent 'old money' elite residing in the likes of Port Washington, and even those residing in the 'young money' estates of Great Neck, the only real concern one faces is their social standing among wealthy neighbors. Nobody seems particularly interested in politics or religion —  or even education, for that matter. Sure, a degree from an ivy league university makes for excellent decoration, but Alex has come to learn you aren't required to have learned anything during your time there. All that is necessary is sticking to what keeps the money flowing and what conforms to certain but necessary standards. Jesse Manes is the last person to ever shake the status quo, which Alex abuses to no end for his own personal gain. 

"To Great Neck?" The woman repeats, eyes suddenly ablaze with newfound interest. "You wouldn't be heading to the Evans' party, would you?"

Alex knows he's stuck between a rock and a hard place, as does his father. To rebuke her inquiries would be nothing short of rude, and Alex knows all too well what the punishment is for poor manners in the Manes' household. 

Jesse Manes looks awfully pleased with himself when he suggests, "Why not take Maria with you?" 

Alex knows for a fact that his father cannot stand the Evans nor the parties they allow their spoiled children to throw, but the chance to stick this girl on Alex is simply too rich of an opportunity to pass up. And given the fact Kyle must be growing impatient outside, Alex doesn't have the time to argue back and forth with his father. 

"Why not?" Alex responds, forcing a warm, welcoming smile. He, too, can play these social games. "Let's blouse, Maria."

When the doors to the Manes' mansion finally open, Kyle is surprised to see Alex accompanied by a young woman. She even brushes past Alex to snag the front seat in Kyle's sleek automobile, immediately forcing Alex to hop into the backseat. Were this not typical behavior for women her age, Kyle might be tempted to demand she get right back out. 

"I can't believe you almost left me to play croquet with your brothers and their boring wives," she laments, surprising both Alex and Kyle. Toward the latter, she extends her hand. "I'm Maria DeLuca, by the way. You are?"

"Kyle Valenti," Alex explains on his behalf, begrudgingly settling behind her. "Do you always behave like this? Here I thought you were a proper lady."

"Doubtful," Maria remarks, followed by a sharp laugh. "I can tell you were looking to get rid of me, but don't worry. I'll be out of your hair once we reach the Evans estate. I have a friend I've been meaning to see, but my father insisted I come visit _you_ instead of attending their party."

For most of the drive, Maria explains her connection to Maxwell's fiancé, how many of his parties she's attended, and her personal disdain for uptight New York society. It's a considerable trip as well, taking them from where the Manes reside on Sands Point to where the Evans live at Kings Point, but neither Alex or Kyle have anything better to do on the ride there. Besides, it seems Maria has enough gossip to keep them interested. 

"Did I even mention my friend's name?" Maria absentmindedly asks, to which Alex laughs and Kyle shakes his head. "Her name is Elizabeth Ortecho, but she's taken to calling herself Liz. You know, because it's not nearly as much of a mouthful."

"Elizabeth Ortecho?" Kyle repeats, and Alex groans. Kyle's shoulders droop and he looks positively miserable, so his friend knows exactly where this is headed. "Is that why the Evans are throwing the party? Because she's engaged to Maxwell?"

"You only dated for six months," Alex reminds, because he can't let Kyle, of all people, impede on his plans. 

"Oh!" Maria exclaims, playfully smacking Kyle's arm. "I should have known you were _that_ Kyle Valenti!" Then she turns in her seat to face Alex, giving him a very pointed stare. "Alex, why are you friends with Elizabeth's old flame?"

"Our fathers know each other," Alex dismissively explains. He waves his hand as means for changing the subject. "That's besides the point. Kyle, don't tell me you're reconsidering when we're almost there."

"I didn't know this was their engagement party," Kyle mutters, though he doesn't stop driving. "We weren't even invited, Alex. I heard from the Longs—"

"No one is ever  _really_  invited. Not usually," Maria chides very matter-of-factly. "These parties are full of people who know other people who supposedly know the Evans, or friends of friends of the Evans. You'll fit right in!"

"And I was invited," Alex adds, because he's invited to every single bash at the Evans estate, "so consider yourself my guest."

"See?" Maria says, gesturing between Kyle and Alex. "A friend of a friend of the Evans."

Alex doesn't bother correcting her, but neither Maxwell or Isobel can be considered a friend. They're more like acquaintances who encourage his presence for the sake of a mutual friend. Their elaborate parties, often overflowing with booze and debauchery and glamour, provide the perfect cover for hidden rendezvous. Though Jesse Manes so dearly hates these celebrations, he has no clue what his son gets up to within the safety of the Evans' glitzy manor. Tonight will be no different, and the automobile cannot reach Kings Point soon enough. Much like the Manes' residence is the largest home at the tip of Point Washington, the Evans' is the largest home at the tip of Great Neck. Dozens of cars are parked along their never-ending driveway, now including Kyle's very own Rolls-Royce. The ground practically vibrates with the sheer intensity and volume of the live band playing inside. A handful of bold partygoers waltz around the front steps with cups teeming with every brand of alcohol under the sun, throwing both caution and prohibition to the wind. 

Maria can't get out of the car soon enough, already primping her hair and checking her reflection in one of the side mirrors. 

"I'll see you tomorrow," Maria suddenly announces to Alex, who looks at her with a puzzled expression. "Our fathers have a little outing set up for us. Honestly, Alexander, you should pay attention when your father's talking to you." 

"Unfortunately, I'll have to reject that suggestion," Alex dryly remarks. "But go on, go chase yourself. I'll try not to die of a broken heart." 

With a laugh, she all but skips into the throng of party-goers, presumably in order to track down that friend of hers. That leaves Alex with an already forlorn Kyle, who looks to be in no mood for a party but is Alex's ride back home. If he goes, Alex does too; either that or he risks walking home and getting hit by an inebriated driver. As it stands, he doesn't think a death by automobile is how he wants to go. 

"Go find a choice bit of calico, if you catch my drift," Alex encourages, clasping Kyle's shoulder to give him a solid shake. "If Elizabeth is off having her fun with Maxwell, why don't you do the same with a pretty little thing?"

Kyle seems less than convinced by the idea, but nods nonetheless. "You're right."

"Of course I am," Alex smirks. "You should also drink the Evans out of house and home. Stick it to 'em."

He doesn't actually mean what he says, but he knows a drunk and wild Kyle won't be sober enough to wonder what Alex is about to get up to. It seems to work, though. There's renewed vigor within Kyle, who Alex has no doubt will easily find a partner for the night. Already, a few women lingering by the front doors are eyeing him up.

"Meet back here once the party dies down," Kyle instructs, clapping Alex's back. "I'll drink for the both of us and you can drive me home."

With that, he too is off to join the fray and leaves Alex to his own devices. Just as he planned.

Of course, even Alex needs to delve into the drunken crowd if he wants to find his intended target, and that's no easy feat. Alex will never admit his disdain for these parties, but he doesn't particularly care for them. Even an engagement celebration is no different; there are nothing but selfish, vapid people crowding around the estate, either drowning in liquor inside or dancing the night away outside. They're only interested in having the time of their lives, rather than celebrating the very couple who hosts the whole soirée. That's fine by Alex, to a certain extent. When the alcohol clouds their judgement and they can't see two whole feet in front of them, they won't make a big stink about Alex sneaking away from the intense festivities. He has to pry a few beautiful girls off his arms, insisting that he's searching for his own little honey who's wandered off somewhere. It's not a total lie, or so he likes to think. 

Finally, he finds the person he's looking for — Maxwell Evans, the man of the hour. Alex suspects his fiancé must have run off to gossip with Maria, for Maxwell is busy keeping his sister, Isobel, from being bombarded by suitors left and right. She looks absolutely pleased with the various men vying for her attention, offering her this and that to catch her eye. Maxwell is clearly overwhelmed by the reaction to Isobel's presence, which is surprisingly rare at parties this large. No wonder these men are so eager to speak with the heiress to the Evans fortune, enraptured by her beauty like every other straight man is. 

"Alexander!" Maxwell breathes out a sigh of relief, as if Alex is his saving grace. "When you see Michael, could you tell him I need his help?"

"Sure thing," Alex agrees, but he certainly _won't_ tell Michael that. "I'll need to know where he is, first."

"Right," Maxwell sighs, motioning toward the nearby staircase. The second story is strictly off limits for most guests, which is an easy enough rule to follow when all of the company and the alcohol is stuck on the first floor. "He's decided to mix things up and head for the study. The second he spotted your ride, he rushed right up there."

"Thank you," Alex breezily replies. He doesn't give Maxwell much more of a thought, but does spare Isobel a little wave. From where someone's tried to slide a pearl necklace around her neck, she beams and waves back. 

After descending the stairs and making his way to the library, Alex finds him. He's lounging across a couch situated beside the expanse of a massive window reaching across each end of the room, giving them the perfect view of the festivities below. A few unfortunate but lively attendees have found themselves in swimming pool, while others are perusing along the Evans' private beach. The buffet tents in the gardens, overflowing with a feast fit for royalty, are surprisingly busy. On top of the band within, there's a live orchestra playing under the stars. Liquor flows freely for the wealthy elite of this stomping ground, who are too busy getting rowdier and rowdier to notice the couple in the library. It's a scene Alex has grown accustomed to over the past few months.

When Alex shuts the door, his lover shifts and the baby blue satin jacket he's sporting slides off one bare shoulder, barely held up on the other. Michael knows exactly what he's doing, enticing Alex before he's even taken two steps inside. A true tease. 

"I was wondering when you'd get here," Michael sighs, as if he's completely and utterly devastated. "I've been waiting for two whole hours. I thought you'd stood me up."

"Tell it to Sweeney," Alex scoffs. "Maxwell told me you've only been here for a few minutes. The moment you saw me with Kyle Valenti, you ran right up and waited for me to find you."

Michael rolls his eyes, but know he's been caught in the act. "Maxwell should know when to keep his mouth shut. He's such a wurp."

"Be nice," Alex teases, making his way toward the couch. "He's your cousin and you love mooching off of his money, you four-flusher."

Michael looks like he might actually take offense to that, so Alex swoops down to steal a kiss and all but crawls into Michael's lap. That settles him real quick. Soon, Michael's hands are roaming underneath Alex's jacket and yanking at his tucked shirt, hoping to get beneath and feel the soft, warm, all too familiar skin. He loves marking Alex up where no one will see, further solidifying their dirty little secret. 

"I'm only teasing," Alex reassures, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of Michael's mouth. Almost immediately, Michael's lips are pressed against his own and he's stealing a hot, passionate kiss that leaves Alex dizzy in its wake. 

"I know," Michael says, once he's gotten his fill of Alex. "You love my money almost as much as you love me, don't you?"

Alex swats at his chest, but bursts out laughing nonetheless. "What money?"

It's all in good fun, of course. They both know Michael has his own means for making a steady fortune, as most young men of New York so often do. There's profit to be had in speakeasies and the liquor trade on the black market, even if it involves forming mafia ties that're far more risky than they're worth. But people like Michael are eager to make a name for themselves, yearning to get a piece of the opulence and decadence of their generation. Alex thinks Michael is the perfect encapsulation of what many call the Flaming Youth; flappers and cake-eaters who have far too much time and money on their hands. To the chagrin of a conservative society, they thrive off the syncopated beats of jazz, knock back bottles of illegal liquor by the pound, and proudly tout their sexual liberation at parties such as these.

Alex can technically be thrown in with the lot, just as much of a cake-eater as Michael and half of the people in attendance, but he has an image to maintain. The ideal Manes man does not engage in such debauchery, but Alex secretly revels in it. Sneaking away to neck with Michael in the midst of a thrumming celebration is what keeps Alex sane in an otherwise uptight world. It's why he dismisses every woman to enter his life, though he knows this can only go on for so long. But for now, with Michael's arms around him and their mouths crashing together for a searing kiss, he can forget all about those obligations. 

For the better part of the evening, they lounge together on the couch, pressed as close as their stiff clothing allows and letting their hands roam wherever they please. Alex recounts every last boring, tedious task he's forced to endure at his family's accounting firm, then Michael tells Alex of a run-in with the mafia kingpin known simply as Kivar. It's risky business, but Michael says it's all worth it, just so he can buy Alex nice things — watches, suits, alcohol, and the like. He even finishes his statement by pulling a watch from his back pocket and sliding it into Alex's hand. 

"A Rolex Oyster?" Alex gasps, already rushing to slip it around his wrist. Not even Alex's father buys such expensive items for his youngest son, who's arguably his least favorite of the bunch. Thankfully, he has a rich lover to make up for that. "Michael, you shouldn't have!"

Michael sits there beaming, watching as Alex ooh's and aah's over his new gift. Alex twists his wrist to watch it glimmer beneath the moonlight drifting through the window, so enraptured with the Rolex that he nearly misses Michael's hands drifting from the small of his back to the curve of his ass. He has to swat Michael's hands away, but they simply find their way back and Michael's soon peppering kisses along his jaw, neck, any strip of skin he can latch onto. 

"I love you," Michael murmurs.

Now Alex is the one beaming as he replies, "And I love you, too."

This apparently calls for their own private celebration, seeing as that Michael is soon ushering Alex off of his lap and pulling his lover up on his feet. Alex can already tell where this is going, especially since the bands inside and out have taken to playing the same upbeat tune. Michael clasps Alex's hand in his own and the other slides down to settle on his waist, already tugging Alex through the steps of the Charleston dance Michael loves so much. Alex isn't one to complain, simply stepping in time with the music and Michael's own flurry of movements. As they dance, Michael's hand slides to the small of Alex's back, pulling him as close as they can possibly be, and he leans in for a kiss. At the last second, however, Alex coyly turn his head and their cheeks press together instead of their lips. 

"Oh, you tease," Michael growls. Alex merely laughs and pecks the corner of Michael's mouth. "All that, after I just gave you a watch worth your weight in gold?"

"I can feel your beard coming in," is all Alex says, clearly playing hard to get. Teasing and toying with Michael is too much fun, and he knows Michael secretly revels in this little game of theirs. At least, when it's just the two of them. "Don't you think you'd look good with one?"

"Not a chance," Michael snorts.

When he goes in for another kiss, Alex simply pecks his nose instead. Thus begins their usual game of cat and mouse: Michael trying to get affection, Alex playfully denying him such pleasures, and the two falling back onto the couch to wrestle with one another. The rest of the world melts away when Alex eventually relents, allowing Michael's arms to wrap around his waist and Michael to settle atop him, pressing Alex firmly against the couch that can barely fit both men. It's at times like this where Alex can picture a life with Michael. A not-so-distant future where they have their own private mansion and can hide away from the rest of the world, including Alex's own family. Alex likes to think that Michael can properly take care of him and keep up with the extravagant lifestyle he enjoys. 

In a cruel twist of fate, they're caught in the throes of a tender kiss when the door to the study opens. Neither of them are aware of it until Michael's unceremoniously ripped right off of Alex. At that point, the latter realizes someone is looming overhead and is the reason why Michael now sprawled across the carpet. His eyes travel up to meet the furious gaze of his oldest brother, Harlan, and Alex comes to realize he's in a great deal of trouble. 

Voice dripping with cruel sarcasm, Harlan says, "Bank's closed, you little brat." 

Before Alex can explain himself, Harlan's gripping the collar of his suit and physically pulling him off the couch. Alex nearly trips in the process and Michael reaches out to balance him, but Harlan shoves Michael back down down for good measure. All the while, Alex is begging him to stop and leave Michael alone, to mind his own business and go back home. But Harlan does none of that. He keeps a firm hold on Alex and drags him right out of the room, slamming it shut in the process. Alex's brother makes quick work descending the grand staircase, moving even faster when they can both hear Michael calling for Alex. Their footsteps harshly echoing across a now empty foyer and Alex realizes the rest of the party has cleared out. Perhaps the police were called courtesy of Harlan, or perhaps Alex simply lost track of time while he was with Michael.

Rather than head straight for the entrance, Harlan shoves Alex into an empty room. His brother finally relents on his grip, but simply so he can slap the back of his hand against Alex's cheek. It sends Alex crumbling to the ground and cowering against a chair, every last ounce of rebellion draining from him. He's harshly reminded that he's the weakest link in this situation, nothing more than a twenty-two year old weakling compared to a brother who is rapidly approaching thirty-three and has the build to match.

"What in God's name are you _doing_?" Harlan seethes. He grabs hold of Alex's tie and yanks him back up to his feet, prompting Alex to cower. He realizes Harlan isn't going to strike him just yet, but he still readies himself for a blow he expects to come. "Answer me, Alexander. _Now_."

"Exactly what it looks like," Alex dares to respond, and that's when the second hit comes. This time, he scrambles to put a considerable distance between them, ensuring a desk keeps Harlan at bay and prevents anymore abuse. 

"You're lucky I came looking for you instead of our father," his brother hisses, pacing around the room. "He would've killed that dewdropper on the spot—"

"Dewdropper?" Alex repeats, biting back a laugh. "He makes more money than you do for half the work."

"He peddles alcohol and drugs," Harlan points out. "His money comes from the mob, Alexander. Don't you see that?" His gaze drifts to the watch on Alex's wrist, which he's taken to cradling against his chest. "Did he buy that for you? Hm? With that dirty money of his?"

"Shut up," Alex says, unable to meet his brother's gaze. "Just shut up, Harlan."

"You're a fool," Harlan snaps, sounding every bit as cruel and stoic as their father. It's clear why he's the family favorite. "You think you can be seen in public with someone like Michael Guerin? He's a  _criminal_. You're a Manes man with an Oxford education and a family reputation to uphold. In what world will something so wrong — something that goes against everything our father raised us to believe — ever work?" 

Alex doesn't answer, suddenly incapable of finding his voice amid his brother's blind fury. 

"If any of our father's associates saw you here tonight? Saw you with that scum?" Harlan continues. "The firm could go into ruin. No one wants to do business with the likes of your kind, so why would they come to an establishment that they think supports that lifestyle?"

"Times are changing," Alex quietly argues. "People don't care anymore, Harlan. Not everyone is a bluenose like you or dad."

"That's where you're wrong," Harlan insists. "Not everyone is a cake-eater or a flapper or whatever the hell you all call yourselves. _You're_ the minority here, not the other way around. Don't forget that."

Without hesitation, Alex responds, "You do illegal things on a regular basis. How does going to speakeasies or smoking reefers with your college buddies make you any better than he is or I am?"

"Because I'm not doing that every goddamn night," Harlan spits, as if disgusted with Alex. He may very well be. "I have a wife and child at home. I have a dependable job that doesn't involve breaking the law. _That's_ what makes me better than either of you." Shaking his head, he feels the need to add, "Just wait until Dad gets wind of this."

Alex doesn't doubt the implication of his words. He dreads telling their father, but knows Harlan isn't about to let this behavior slide. His biggest fear, however, is what could happen to Michael once his father finds out he's been sleeping around with a mafia underling, or the Evans for allowing Michael and Alex to engage in their affair behind closed doors. His concern for everyone other than himself is why he willingly follows his brother out of the room and through one of the many backdoors around the estate. He thinks that if he behaves himself and faces his punishment, his father will spare anyone else involved. If Alex must atone for his perceived sins, so be it, but he can't fathom the thought of Michael going down with him. 

Once home, the wrath of Jesse Manes proves to be far worse than anything Harlan could ever do to Alex. When Maria stops by the following day — because Heaven forbid his father cancel plans with another privileged socialite or his daughter — Alex sports a blackening eye, a split lip, and a gash across his forehead. 

"I got into a tussle at the party last night," Alex easily lies, forcing a smile while their fathers are around. "Don't worry, the boozehound who did this to me looks even worse."

Maria doesn't buy it for one second. She puts on her seemingly typical act of a ditsy, clueless little beauty who knows no better, buying Alex's excuse at face value and asking if he's up for a game of croquet. Fearing his father's wrath, Alex readily complies and ushers her out to the Manes' massive backyard. There, she gets the full story out of him, simply because he no longer feels the need to hold up polite pretenses.

"Oh, Alexander," she sighs, pulling him into a fierce hug. "Why don't you just leave? I'll lie to my father and we'll clear out the pool house for you."

Alex glances toward the wide, double-doors where their fathers are standing. Maria's father looks pleased by the sudden proximity of the two, but Alex's father looks skeptical about the whole affair. His son can't hold his gaze for very long; he averts his eyes and focuses on the bay beyond his father's private docks. Just across the way is the Evans' home, serving as a stark reminder of the cruel fate that could befall the twins and their cousin should Alex not comply. 

"My father threatened to send the bulls to the Evans estate," he whispers in her ear. "He's got connections, Maria. Connections I didn't even know he had."

Maria doesn't say anything after that. She continues to keep her arms around his neck, almost as if she's afraid to let go and risk letting Alex fall into literal pieces. But soon he pulls back and agrees to continue their croquet game, simply because his father is watching and might realize Alex has said more than he's allowed. It's the last they speak of his situation while she's there, but she almost wishes she could spend the night. If only to protect Alex from more of his father's wrath. 

Four weeks later, Maria invites Elizabeth over for lunch. They're meant to gloss over details of Elizabeth's wedding, but Elizabeth isn't there to discuss what's meant to be the happiest day of her life. Instead, she tells Maria about a sudden loss in Maxwell's family. How they've had to push the wedding back in favor of his cousin's funeral. How Maxwell and Isobel are both too grief-stricken to do much of anything these days. 

"His cousin?" Maria repeats, dread pooling in her stomach. "Which cousin?"

"Michael Guerin," Elizabeth solemnly responds. "He passed away almost a week ago. You haven't heard?"

"No, I...I haven't," Maria replies. Without thinking, she asks, "Does Alex Manes know?"

Elizabeth looks surprised by the question, but her features soften. It appears they're both aware of the same secret.

"The day after it happened," Elizabeth explains, "Maxwell and I went to the Manes estate. You know, because we felt like Alex should be the first to know. When we got there, we were told Alex moved out to Chicago to be with his fiancé—"

"Fiancé? Alex doesn't have a fiancé," Maria interjects, to which Elizabeth nods. 

"That's what Maxwell told me," her friend agrees. "His father insists he does, though. Then he told us Alex has no business attending the funeral of some stranger and threatened to call the police if we didn't scram out. As far as any of us know, Alex has no idea that Michael's passed."

"Maybe it's for the best," Maria suggests. Truth be told, she doesn't think Alex can handle such news. Not after everything his family continues to put him through. "Does Michael's family know how it happened?"

"A gunshot to the head," Elizabeth replies. A little too blunt for Maria's taste, but she supposes there's no easy way to put it. "Right in his apartment in the city. Maxwell suspects his mafia ties finally caught up to him. It's the oddest thing, though..."

When Elizabeth trails off, Maria lightly nudges her foot. "What's odd about it?"

"Well..." Elizabeth looks uneasy, but presses forward. "There wasn't anything taken from Michael's apartment. Actually, the opposite. There was a Rolex left at the scene of the crime — an Oyster, according to the police. Maxwell doesn't recognize it and neither does Isobel. And it was shattered into a million pieces! Can you believe it? I can't think of anyone who'd do that to such an expensive watch."

 

 

 **2025**.

"Michael — hey, Earth to Michael! Is anyone home?"

The shouting, coupled with the smell of charred meat, pulls Michael back to reality. He can't quite recall _why_ he zoned out, but now a whole row of hot dogs are burnt to a crisp and Delilah is waddling a little too close to the barbecue and Alex is trying to soothe a fussy Winston, bouncing their baby boy on his hip while chasing after Delilah, and right, Michael is supposed to _not_ be burning their dinner and ensuring their oldest child _doesn't_ take a nose dive for the pool behind him.

"My bad," Michael blurts, immediately moving forward to scoop his daughter up and away from the hazard. Balancing a giggling toddler in one arm, Michael rushes to remove the now ruined hot dogs. Alex promptly arrives with a brand new pack and runs a hand across Michael's forehead, as fretful as ever.  

"You alright there?" Alex asks, head cocked. When Winston's big, bright eyes wander up to see what his father is doing, he too cocks his head. "Should I run in and get some nail polish remover?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Michael quickly reassures, leaning over to peck Alex on the cheek. Delilah makes a gagging sound in the back of her throat and pushes their heads away, prompting laughter from both of her fathers. "See? Even Delilah wants you to stop worrying."

"If you say so," Alex sighs. He leans in to pepper a few kisses across Delilah's face, eliciting a string of giggles from the three-year-old and causing Winston to whine for his own share of the attention. "Oh, come on, Winnie. Be nice to your sister." 

"Winnie?" Michael repeats, cracking a smile. "Is that what we're calling him now?"

"It's what Isobel calls him. Since she's his godmother and it's finally starting to grow on me, you should probably get used to it," Alex chuckles. "Speaking of, she wants to know if we're down for a play date tomorrow. Noah can't figure out how to build Elliot's swing set and Isobel's counting on you to save the day." 

"Tell her to throw in lunch and I'm down," Michael says, because Isobel is the typical suburban mom who will lay out a whole spread of delicious treats for the kids and let Michael pick off of whatever their daughter or nephew don't eat. 

"Focus on dinner and then we'll talk," Alex snorts, motioning to the discarded hot dogs. With ease that still manages to leave Michael speechless, Alex slips his arm under Delilah and frees up Michael's plate-wielding hand. It takes an awful lot of patience and persistence to carry both of their children in his arms, but Alex does so without breaking a sweat. "This is our last pack of hot dogs, by the way. Add that to my grocery list when you get the chance, yeah?"

"Sure thing, babe," Michael agrees, and they share a quick kiss before Alex is off hoisting Delilah toward a safer section of their backyard. 

Six years ago, Michael could've never imagined his life turning out like this. He'd resigned himself to the life of a miserable bachelor, spending most nights drunk off his ass and instigating bar fights for kicks. Then Alex came home, and Max couldn't resist blowing their cover to Liz, and all three siblings had to relive a decade-old tragedy they never truly committed, and everything was thrown into utter chaos. There were multiple moments where Michael was certain Alex would leave him for good — as they'd both grown so used to over the years, no thanks to all sorts of outside forces plotting against them. To think they've settled down as an unassuming couple in Suburban America, touting around a newborn son and young daughter, is still mind-boggling. Sometimes, Michael has to pinch himself. Just to make sure this all isn't some fantastic dream he'll wake up from. 

As the sun hangs low against the horizon, Michael finishes up with dinner. They've got grilled shrimp and barbecue ribs to supplement the hot dogs Michael let burn. When Michael rejoins his family with arms loaded full of plates, the fairy lights around their patio illuminate Alex and their children in a beautiful glow. Winston looks rather sleepy, but his eyes widen and he shakes his arms around wildly when he spots Michael approaching. He even tries to slide up out of his highchair, despite lacking any actual function in his legs. It's a futile attempt, but Michael beams upon realizing his son is just that happy to see him again. 

"Winnie," Alex lightly scolds, settling their youngest back down in his highchair. Beside Alex, Delilah is too busy staring up at the white lights to notice her brother's fussy commotion. She's latched onto Alex's arm, though, and doesn't want to let go. When it raises during his attempts to soothe Winston, she stands up in her chair to keep a tight grip on her father. Only when Michael sets the plates of food on the outdoor table does she release Alex, and Michael rewards her by giving her a hot dog and handful of shrimp. 

"Thank you, Papa," Delilah politely responds. Michael will _never_ get tired of being called that. He's sure of it. "Daddy, Daddy, time to eat!" 

"Hold on, sweetie," Alex coos, busying himself with getting Winston's baby food ready. "Winnie's gotta eat too, right?"

"Right!" Delilah agrees. She plops herself down in her chair, held up by a few cushions so she can see past the edge of the table. Michael's settled down at the head of the table, placing Delilah right between her fathers, because she refuses to eat any other way. "More?"

"Eat what you have first," Michael instructs, ruffling her blonde curls. She giggles and tries to swat his hands away, sticking her tongue out for good measure. Then Alex swoops in to _also_ toy with her hair and all bets are off as she continues squealing. Delilah is beyond delighted by the attention, basking in the affection. 

"Love you," Alex murmurs, leaning down to kiss Delilah's forehead. He glances over at Michael, and the smile on his face grows even bigger. "You too, Michael."

Michael wonders what he could've done to deserve a life this good, overflowing with tenderness and bliss and the love one can only experience from having a family of their own. He can't find the words to encapsulate everything he's thinking, to describe just how happy he is in this single moment. 

So he settles for a warm smile that matches his husband's, laces their fingers atop their daughter's head, and says, "Love you more." 

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this fic, feel free to drop a kudos or comment, but only if that's what you're into. If you prefer other methods, you can privately hug your phone/computer close to your chest and whisper, "Thank you." I promise I'll hear your kind words, sense your gratitude, and smile to myself. Find me at [alexmanes](https://alexmanes.tumblr.com) if you ever want to discuss the beauty of Malex.


End file.
